


Judas

by lacemonster



Series: Lacemonster's Gifts [16]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Catholic Guilt, Guilt, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Paddling, Pedophilia, Priest Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religion, Rough Sex, Shame, Slurs, Slut Shaming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacemonster/pseuds/lacemonster
Summary: Non Capes AU; severe content warning, please read tags and notes before readingWith no one else to turn to for his emerging feelings towards Bruce, Dick goes to church where he meets Father Wilson.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Lacemonster's Gifts [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1181402
Comments: 14
Kudos: 94





	Judas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Demi_Cellist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demi_Cellist/gifts), [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> This fic contains severe, explicit content. Please do not read if rape/non-con, rape/non-con involving no preparation, content involving an underage character, homophobia, or homophobic slurs disturb you. This fic is also set in a religious setting and there are additional warnings that you can find in the tags.
> 
> Any upset comments that have disregarded the tags/warnings will be ignored and deleted. Read at your own risk. If there is anything that is untagged, I will fix the tags.
> 
> I will also mention that I am non-religious, so I’m not sure how accurate this fic is. I tried my best to do my research but at the end of the day, I was striving for fantasy and not accuracy.
> 
> This fic was requested by withthekeyisking for Demi_Cellist! I hope you enjoy.

Piano music filled the manor, quiet but melodious. Dick played mindlessly, fingers gliding over the keys, instinctively following the chords he had memorized from various songs. The result of his playing were various sounds that strung together like loose threads.

Beyond the piano music, his ears picked up on footsteps near the entrance of the parlor. At that, his fingers skipped a key, and even though he wasn’t playing anything in particular, it sounded like he had stumbled.

His eyes shifted to the sheet of music. His hands stiffened back into proper position, picking a part and moving in sync with what was written on the page. But even as he stared at the notes, his gaze looked at nothing at all. He played the music, but he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was focused on those footsteps that drew closer and closer.

His breath stilled when a hand touched his shoulder. His face burned hot, his skin prickling underneath the touch. He kept playing, allowing his hands to slow ever so slightly, the piano keys humming underneath his fingertips.

He couldn’t breathe. He stared at the sheet music, the notes all blurring together now. His heart pounding hard and fast. It was hard to think, the keys and the sounds slipping away.

His body felt hot. Was it noticeable? He kept playing, hoping Bruce wouldn’t sense his reaction.

Dick always craved Bruce’s touch. The man’s large, rough, masculine hands had no reason to be so gentle. But lately—lately—

“Very good,” Bruce said.

Dick’s face burned impossibly hotter. He sucked in his bottom lip ever so slightly. He wanted to say something, but didn’t know what to say. So he kept playing, playing his very best, in the hopes that he could invite Bruce to say something, to praise him again—

To just stay like that, right there, with that hand on his shoulder.

But just as soon as the hand had touched him, it slipped away.

Dick stared at the music, listening as the footsteps retreated.

Dick travelled down the center of the empty nave. His eyes followed the ribs of the arches, his gaze moving heavensward to the hanging crucifix. The apse was glowing with the glory of Christ, the crucifix and the painted narratives on the dome all shed in a warm, almost golden light. 

It was a beautiful church. Dick’s research told him it was one of the oldest and largest churches in Gotham. It had that rich, woody smell and warmth that seemed inherent in old buildings. It was nothing like Bruce’s church, which was small and private—perfect for the Gotham elite. Bruce’s church was modern, bright.

But even so, Dick found himself in awe of his surroundings.

Dick was supposed to be at his piano lesson. He had skipped it. The moment he was out of school, he had taken a bus-line he had never been on, rode to a neighborhood he had never visited, all to reach this church. Dick stopped in the middle of the aisle, turning in the direction of the confessional booth. He stared at it for a good while, unblinking. The confessional was carved from dark wood. There were no curtains, unlike the confessional at Bruce’s church. Instead there were doors with patterned screens, which were glowing orange-red from within.

“Can I help you?”

Dick was jerked out of his mesmerized stare. He turned around, coming face to face with an old man with white hair and a thick mustache. Dick’s eyes travelled over the man’s gray clerical shirt, landing on the embroidery above the breast-pocket. Dick recognized the cross and stole sewn there.

“Are you a member of the church?” the man asked. He was more gentle than insistent. His accent reminded Dick of Alfred, the English dialects nearly identical. Dick didn’t comment on it. Squaring his shoulders with some bravado, Dick pushed out his reply.

“I wanted to make confession,” Dick said after a moment. The old deacon’s eyes seemed to grow more curious, staring at this boy who was a stranger to him and was insistent on making a confession. But just as Dick had no questions for him, the deacon kept whatever questions he might have had to his chest.

“Someone’s in there at the moment. Have you done confession before?”

Dick nodded silently.

“Well, then. Just wait here until that light goes out. Father Wilson will help you.”

“Thank you.”

The deacon seemed pleased with Dick’s politeness.

“Sit where you like. Don’t hesitate to ask any questions.” 

The deacon left, retreating back into the church. Dick’s gaze lowered. He sat on the nearest pew, which was an uncomfortable seat, but he made no complaints. He took off his backpack, hugged it to his chest, and waited patiently.

As he sat with his thoughts, a heaviness began to sink into him. He thought about what might happen if Bruce found out he was here. Strange, how his plan to confess had turned into a secret itself.

The lights on the confession booth blinked.

Dick watched as a woman exited the booth and toward the doors, the clicking of her heels filling the otherwise silent church. Dick grabbed his things and hurriedly headed toward the confession booth.

He entered the booth, his heart skipping when the red lights suddenly flickered back on. His eyes instinctively went up to the cross hanging on the wall. Remembering to close the door, he shut it, the door clicking with a sound of finality. There was no more running now, Dick realized.

Even for Dick’s small size, the booth felt cramped, the air stale. There was no chair to sit on. Dick awkwardly glanced around, realizing there was no place for his things, and was forced to set his coat and bag on the floor. He kneeled beside the window, folding his hands in prayer.

He dared to glance upwards. The priest’s face was a blur behind the slotted screen, but there was no mistaking when the priest’s head inclined toward Dick. Dick’s eyes darted back down, feeling strangely exposed.

When the priest said nothing, Dick realized he should begin. He quickly made the sign of the cross.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Dick paused for a moment. The words had been quick to come, but weighed heavily once they were out. Swallowing, Dick continued, “It has been five days since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Dick breathed in a little, his heart beginning to race faster. He stared at the grain of the wood where his arms were placed upon, his hands still clasped in prayer. He found it too difficult to look anywhere else, shame gluing his gaze downward.

“First, I… want to apologize for not telling the truth. I lied at my last confession. I lied to my piano teacher about being sick. Then, I didn’t tell my guardian I was coming here instead.” Dick clasped his hands tighter. He had come a long way to confess. And yet, when it came time to actually speak, he started to clam up. With difficulty, he managed to say, “I wanted to confess—I… I’ve been having bad thoughts, lately, Father.”

Dead silence followed. Dick continued to stare at the empty space between his arms, waiting. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, desperate to fill the tense silence, the priest finally replied, low and deep.

“What kind of thoughts?”

At that, Dick’s face burned. He knew this question was coming, and yet, he was still running from the truth. He had travelled so far to confess to a priest from a different church, just so he could have the bravery to speak under his veil of anonymity, and yet he still hid the truth, too ashamed. 

He used to never think about heaven and hell. Growing up, God was just a distant concept. But after his parents’ deaths, after being taken under Bruce’s wing, he was lost and alone. Bruce had brought Dick into his church, where Dick learned about purpose and healing.

But as time passed, the solace that Dick found in religion had become a nightmare. He went to bed with thoughts of sin. As punishment, he experienced hell in his nightmares. Every mass, the fear of condemnation weighed on him.

He needed to confess. Even if he was beyond saving, he needed some type of relief, unable to bear the burden of his secrets on his heart. Maybe he was too cowardly to speak in the sanctuary that Bruce had shepherded him to. But here, he was anonymous. He was safe.

It was just him and Father Wilson.

“Lust,” Dick said. It took force to spit out the word, then just as quickly as it had come, Dick found himself speechless. Every confession he had written and memorized in his head suddenly went blank. Dick fumbled to find the words to elaborate. “I’ve been confused. And scared. I don’t know what’s wrong with me—“

“You’ve come here to confess your sins,” Father Wilson said, cutting him off in the midst of his rambling. Dick felt taken aback by the bluntness of his voice, but there was a strange comfort in that tone. It acted as a composed voice of reason to Dick’s turbulent emotions. “You took the first step toward forgiveness. Tell me, boy. What’s causing you to have these thoughts?”

“Bruce,” Dick breathed at once, then he realized the vagueness of his answer and quickly elaborated, “Bruce, he’s… the one who adopted me. After my parents died. He’s my guardian. Like a father.”

“Bruce,” Father Wilson said shortly, without any sense of wonder to his voice. He pressed on, “And does Bruce implant these thoughts into your head? Does he make you do immoral things?”

“Immoral things?” Dick repeated, lost.

“Does he touch you?” Father Wilson said plainly.

At that, Dick immediately bristled in place, his face burning hot. He should have been ashamed of the memories that suddenly crossed his mind—the gentle touches, the rare hugs, that Dick had perverted in his nightly fantasies. But mostly, he felt defensive of Bruce.

“No. Never, not like that,” Dick said at once. He finally confessed, “But sometimes I wish he would. That’s why I need help. I guess—I’m sick.”

Silence followed. Dick had no proof—he couldn’t even see the priest’s face—but he felt judgment in that silence. Or maybe Dick felt haunted by his own shame. Either way, he wondered if he had made a mistake. If he had shared too much. Or if he was simply beyond forgiveness.

“When was the first time you realized you were having these thoughts?”

Dick shifted in place. The hard wood was beginning to dig into his knees. His legs started to ache from kneeling. He ignored it.

“When I started getting better at piano,” Dick said. 

Already, the memories were starting to drift before his mind. Bruce had always been kind and generous to him, but emotionally distant. Those early days were rough. Beyond processing his grief over his dead parents, Dick had to learn to live with new people, to navigate in a new lifestyle. 

He had stumbled through learning piano in the same way that he had stumbled in learning Bruce. He had to study what keys to press, how to listen to the tones, how to ease in and how to slow down. It took practice, frustration. But once he got a hang of it, the awkward fumbling between them began to fade into the smoothest of melodies.

Bruce’s mother used to play piano. Before she died. Once Dick started to get decent at playing, Bruce started to drift in and out of the room. Listening.

It was the beginning of their connection.

“I was playing in the parlor. He came up behind me. And he started playing on the piano with me.”

Dick could still remember it vividly. Bruce reaching over his shoulder to hit the keys. The smell of his cologne flooding Dick’s senses. His body hovering so close that Dick could occasionally feel the silky brush of the man’s necktie against his bare nape. The way he could sense the warmth of Bruce’s body radiating from him and how badly he wanted to lean into that warmth, embrace that warmth.

And the way that Dick’s body burned in response—the way his face turned so hot that he felt his eyes prick with tears. He had moments with crushes, but had never felt that way before. So weak, so entrapped. A feeling he had never experienced before had slowly, yet suddenly, spread inside of him. Like a poison, oozing into every inch of him. And from that moment, Dick was powerless to Bruce, always hanging onto his every word and action, waiting for another opportunity to arrive. An opportunity to smell that cologne again, to feel the warmth of their bodies intermingle, the thrill of their forms brushing against each other. To be close.

And just like the worst and the best of poisons, it didn’t just kill him. It made him addicted.

“Afterwards, he touched my shoulder. And it was different than all the other times he had touched me. It made my heart beat really, really fast. I was all nervous inside, like butterflies in my stomach. And then…”

Dick stopped. He was pulled out of his memory and brought back to the confessional booth. The hard walls that glowed red, trapping him, suffocating him. Dick’s hands tightened in their clasp. He breathed softly, then continued.

“I did stuff. When I was in bed. I touched myself, to thoughts of him.”

“How did you touch yourself?”

Dick stopped.

He stared, wide-eyed, down at his clasped hands. His held breath swelled inside of his chest.

“How did you touch yourself?” Father Wilson pushed, his voice lower this time.

Deeper this time.

Dick blushed hard at that tone. The lower pitches of that voice had captured his attention from the beginning. The deep grumbles of Father Wilson’s voice seemed so unlike a priest, and yet so familiar. 

It didn’t take long for Dick to realize who it reminded him of. 

Dick finally breathed out. His eyes shifted back to the cross on the wall, a small reminder that Dick needed to calm himself, control himself.

“Well, I… put my hand on my…” Dick trailed off. His heart was racing fast now. His stomach twisted. He felt so ashamed of himself. Every moment of pleasure he had stolen now repaid him with pain and disgust.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Did you penetrate yourself?” Father Wilson said, breaking Dick’s hesitation.

Dick was stunned by that question. He shifted in place again. The ache in his knees was beginning to spread to his thighs. His thighs were burning, quivering.

“You do know what I’m referring to?” Father Wilson said. His voice had an edge to it, pushing Dick to answer. To confess.

“No,” Dick said. He quickly explained, “I mean, no, I don’t know what you mean.”

“I see.” A short pause. “And how many times did you touch yourself?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But it was more than once?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Carnal desires are a grave, mortal sin. You are aware of this, otherwise you would not be here to confess.”

Dick’s eyes stung with tears. The tears had been waiting under the surface, mixed in with his humiliation and shame. But the Father’s words struck him all at once, the accusations bringing up the weeks, months, of grief that Dick had so desperately tried to bury. But now he was drowning in it—the self hate, the fear, the guilt. There was no more hiding it, the tears threatening to spill now, held only by Dick’s last thread of self-composure.

“Yes, Father,” he said, trying to disguise the crack in his voice.

“And you are also aware that homosexuality is also a mortal sin.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And as I understand it, this man in all manners except blood is your father, and you decided to indulge in incestuous thoughts, which is also a mortal sin.”

Dick never called Bruce his father. But a part of him always wanted to, if only to fill the void he felt after his own father’s death. But the desire for Bruce to be a father never meshed with Dick’s romantic feelings towards him—Dick had been too keen of the danger that lingered there, had made certain to never let those feelings bleed into each other.

So he never called Bruce by that name.

And therein was the wedge between Dick and Bruce’s relationship.

A fresh wave of shame rushed through Dick’s body. Bruce, who had opened his doors to him, who had worked so diligently to become a parental figure—it haunted Dick to maybe think that Bruce _wanted_ to be called “father”. It shamed Dick that he repaid that kindness with such filthiness. It shamed him that their relationship would never evolve past this point, all because of the fantasy that Dick clung to.

This, piled on top of everything, made Dick feel even more miserable about himself. He was disgusting, filthy, unworthy of forgiveness. And yet he continued to kneel, his head bowed, his eyes beginning to form tears, his hands clasped tightly around the belief that God was good, that he was worthy of His forgiveness even if he was undeserving.

“Yes, Father.”

“Apologize for your sins.”

“I am sorry for lying. I am sorry for my bad thoughts—“

“Speak with specificity. You are not apologizing for thoughts, but for your actions.”

Dick swallowed at that, realizing his mistake. And though it took great difficulty and his face burned with shame, he apologized for everything, just as Father Wilson said. For touching himself. For his homosexual desires. For perverting his father.

“And I am truly sorry for all my sins.”

“As penance for your sins, say five Our Fathers.”

They finished with the Act of Contrition and the Prayer of Absolution. And when it came time for Dick to make the sign of the cross and whisper, “Amen,” he could not believe what he had done. He still felt embarrassed and ashamed, but the worst of it was over. Through the glaze of his tearfilled eyes, the colors and details of the confessional seemed brighter.

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”

“His mercy endureth forever.”

“Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God,” Dick finished, and he meant it.

He gathered his things and headed out the booth. His eyes felt worn from the tears that had burned them. Aside from this, his steps felt lighter. 

He did not make it far down the aisle when he heard a clear voice.

“Boy.”

Dick halted. He turned around. His eyes travelled upwards, past the black suit and white clerical collar, to the man’s face. His jawline was stubbled, his hair stark-white. But what stopped Dick were his eyes. One covered with a patch, the other a hardened blue.

Dick’s heart skipped when he saw that gaze. There was a darkness in Father Wilson’s single eye that felt unbecoming of a priest. Dick felt the scrutiny in that stare, something that singled Dick out as being ‘other’. 

Dick’s feelings of guilt and shame began to creep up his neck.

As if there was a devil still on Dick’s shoulder—and in Father Wilson’s one good eye, he could see it sitting there.

“If you’re still having these thoughts, return to the church,” was all Father Wilson said. And with that, he turned away, walking the row beside the arcade, disappearing deeper into the church between the shifts of light and shadow.

There was a gentle knock on the door. Dick shut off his game, setting it beside him on the bed. Even before the door opened, Dick knew it was Bruce, following his nightly tradition. Dick immediately smiled at him.

“Goodnight, Bruce,” he said.

But Bruce did not return the smile and salutation. Instead, he entered the room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Already, Dick knew something was wrong. He immediately shifted in place, sitting up straighter.

His heart was already racing when Bruce said, “Your piano teacher called.”

Dick usually knew what to say. But he kept thinking about his confession. About how he kneeled and apologized for his lies. _Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—_

When Dick did not answer, Bruce sighed softly. Dick could feel the disappointment radiating from him, from the tight line of his mouth to the subtle furrow of his brow. Dick’s chest twisted at that. That hurt more than anything else.

“Where were you, Dick? Why did you skip your lesson?”

Dick breathed in. His heart was beating against his chest. He looked into those blue eyes and wanted to confess everything to Bruce, too. The lies, the secrets—

His feelings.

But he was too afraid.

He already had disappointed Bruce. He couldn’t handle the thought of disappointing him even more. Dick confessed to his sins. He could admit that he was sinful. But he was still so afraid of losing Bruce. And it was then that Dick’s creeping suspicion, ever since his departing words with Father Wilson, crawled back up his shoulder.

Dick was still a sinner. 

Because he feared disappointing Bruce more than he feared God.

Without even thinking, another lie slipped from his lips.

“I was with my friends.”

Bruce looked at him closely, those eyes studying him. And for a moment, Dick felt transparent. Bruce had to have known he was lying. The thought of it scared Dick. Maybe there was no running from this, maybe there were no more lies.

Then, Bruce touched him.

Dick’s face warmed all at once when that hand pressed to his cheek. He stared at Bruce, gaze unwavering, even though he wanted nothing more than to lean into that touch.

“Dick, you don’t have to play the piano if you don’t want to.”

It took Dick a moment for him to realize what Bruce was saying, too distracted by the burn of his touch. That large calloused hand held his face, their eyes locking.

“You don’t have to do anything for me,” Bruce said, eyes imploring. “I took you in because I wanted you to be happy and safe. You don’t need to do things like play the piano just because I like it.”

So, Bruce felt like he had pressured Dick into playing piano. Dick wanted to tell him that he was wrong, but a part of it was true. Dick did play the piano for Bruce. But he didn’t do it to make Bruce happy, he did it for his own reasons. He did it because he wanted Bruce’s attention.

He did it because he wanted Bruce.

He still wanted Bruce, Dick realized. But he couldn’t say that. Couldn’t feel that. So Dick nodded, the gesture pulling him away from Bruce’s touch, the touch he craved so much. The touch that still burned his cheek even after it was gone.

“Okay,” Dick said, too cowardly to tell the truth.

“I hope you’re not getting into trouble.”

“I’m not.”

“I see,” Bruce said, and he decided to leave it at that. He stood up. Dick looked at the spot where Bruce had sat. Somehow, the bed seemed empty without Bruce there. Dick’s eyes travelled back to Bruce’s back, watching as he went to the door. Before he left, Bruce gave him one last look. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Dick said, and as much as he didn’t want Bruce to close that door, he did.

The church felt cold this time.

The heavy doors closed behind Dick, the sounds of the pelting rain coming to a dull hush. He stood there, shivering in his damp clothes. He left a dripping trail of water behind him, only making it a few feet before he noticed the confessional booth. The doors were closed but the lights were off. Dick stopped, thinking about the confessional times he had seen online and wondered if he had misread them. His gaze swept over the church, spotting a head of white hair in the pews.

Dick breathed in, at first thinking it was Father Wilson. But then the man stood up and Dick realized it was the same deacon from last time.

Dick went to him. The man heard his footsteps and turned around, his brow shooting upwards when he took in Dick’s soaked appearance.

“I’m looking for Father Wilson,” Dick said.

“Heavens, lad,” the man said. Dick couldn’t tell if the twist of the man’s grimace beneath his white mustache was from humor or concern. “Look at you. Why don’t you dry off first? Here, follow me—“

“What’s happening here?”

That time, there was no mistaking who it was.

They had only met once before, but Dick knew that iron voice. Inexplicably, the hairs on his nape began to stand. He turned, seeing the stern, furrowed face of Father Wilson. The priest’s single eye shifted in his direction. His face showed no surprise, just scrutiny.

Dick blinked the water from his eyes and then spoke up.

“I’m not sure if you remember me—“

“Yes, I remember you,” he said, his voice cooling now. Dick was rather good at reading expressions—at least, that’s what Alfred always told him whenever Dick could guess Bruce’s moods. But when it came to Father Wilson, Dick couldn’t read him at all. “I told you to return if you were still having problems. I take it that you haven’t repented for your sins. And I also see that you are dripping all over my floors.”

At that, Dick was taken aback. He wasn’t expecting such a harsh response. He blushed, feeling almost embarrassed for returning. But Father Wilson didn’t seem interested in seeing him cow before him. He walked past him, uttering the words:

“Follow me.”

Dick went, but not before giving the deacon one last glance. The deacon was watching him closely, never taking his eyes off of him even as the distance between them grew. There was a sudden graveness in his eyes that worried Dick, so Dick tore his gaze away, focusing on keeping up with Father Wilson’s long strides.

Father Wilson led him to the head of the church, taking him to a dark room. Even when he flipped the switch, the dim lights barely erased the shadows. 

The room was small and was made smaller still with all of the cabinets, dressers, and cardboard boxes taking up space. Dick’s eyes glanced over the hanging rack with clergy outfits to the empty painting frame propped against the wall. This is where the priests got ready for mass, Dick realized. He didn’t think he had ever been in a room like this. He didn’t even think it was allowed.

Father Wilson moved to a desk and gestured to it. Dick approached, his hand ready to pull out the guest chair, but then Father Wilson spoke up.

“No. Stand.”

Dick released the chair and kept his hands to himself.

“You can hang up your jacket,” Father Wilson said, nodding to the hooks on the wall. Dick quickly did so. His shirt was only slightly damp from the downpour, nothing like his soaked jacket, but he still felt a chill run straight through the fabric.

“Let’s talk about your penance.”

Dick turned away from the coathooks, surprised to see Father Wilson already standing there with a linen cloth in his hand. Dick took it to quickly wipe off his face and shake out his hair. From beneath the cloth, he watched as Father Wilson circled around the desk, taking a chair. 

Father Wilson looked at him. Dick shifted uncomfortably in place. Even as he stood over that desk, Dick felt so helplessly small under the Father’s gaze. He felt more and more aware of his cold, damp skin. His clothes felt heavy on him, the fabric drooping off of his skinny frame. He felt so uncomfortable in his body, in ways that he never felt insecure before. He must have looked like a drowned kitten. That’s how Father made him feel—small, weak, pathetic.

“You made your confession two weeks ago, if I recall. What’s happened since then?”

“Should we speak in the confession booth?” Dick said, suggesting it mostly because he couldn’t handle that hard gaze.

“I think it’d be best if we discussed it here,” Father Wilson said, quickly shutting down that idea. The priest tilted his head at Dick. “You came to me for a reason, that day. You came here, specifically.”

Dick lowered his head, letting the linen slip from his shoulders down into his arms. He played with the cloth, taking a moment to compose before speaking.

“Yes, Father. I heard you could help me.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“A classmate.”

“I noticed your uniform. Gotham Academy.” Before Dick could even tense up, Father Wilson said, “Yes, I know it. I know where you’re from.” A moment of silence, then, “Was this classmate of yours a girl?”

Dick bristled in place, feeling like he was being interrogated. He continued to stare down at his hands as he fiddled with the cloth, trying to block out the memory. The horrible things that that girl had told him, all while she smirked and twirled her blonde hair around her finger.

Her stories about Father Wilson both terrified and intrigued him.

“If it’s who I think it was, then she told you a bunch of lies,” Father Wilson said, voice hard. “And if you came here anyways, then you’re not here to repent.”

“That’s not true,” Dick said at once, raising his head.

Judging by Father Wilson’s expression, he seemed unmoved. Dick’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. He felt frustrated, but still desperate to prove his worth. Father Wilson leaned back in his chair, his hand rubbing over the scruff on his chin, seeming thoughtful.

“They’re too soft on children these days,” he said, quietly, as if thinking out loud to himself. “Parents, the school, the church… they let children get away with everything. Especially young, rich boys. Like you.”

“I’m not—“Dick started, but he stopped himself from arguing, remembering he was in the presence of a man of God. And then remembered further still that he was no longer a boy who travelled with struggling entertainers, but a boy who lived with the richest man in Gotham. They lived together now. And Dick would be an inheritor of his, because they were family. Family.

“But I know better,” Father Wilson said, voice hardening, his dark gaze travelling somewhere else. “I know the nature of sin—how it grows and festers. Soft boys don’t grow into men. They grow timid. Undisciplined, they become susceptible to their urges.”

Is that what Dick was?

If he wasn’t timid, then why was he so afraid to confront himself?

Why was he so afraid to look at Father Wilson?

And yet he burned with anger and determination. He didn’t want to be the things that Father said he was. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be better.

“It wasn’t like that in the old days. Centuries ago, people would wear the cilice or self-flagellate to discipline themselves. ‘For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body you will live’.” Father Wilson suddenly chortled. A dry, resentful sort of sound. “These days, they put misbehaving children in corners and detentions.”

Dick was still trying to process the quote, recognizing them from his bible studies, but he still wasn’t sure what Father Wilson was suggesting. He spoke carefully, his anger turning to apprehension.

“What should I do, then? You think I should…” Dick slowed. In his head, he could finish the words, _I should whip myself,_ but to say it seemed crazy. The thought of it both scared and humiliated Dick. He couldn’t imagine doing such a thing.

But then Father Wilson shook his head, pulling out his desk drawer. Dick watched to see what Father Wilson was digging around for, his breath stilling inside his throat in anticipation.

“No, I think I should help you with this.”

Father Wilson started to approach him. Once he had circled around the desk, Dick got a look at him. Immediately, his stomach twisted, recognizing the object in the priest’s hand. He inhaled, the breath swelling inside his throat, his face beginning to burn. 

Dick was considered a good, polite boy. He rarely ever got disciplined. But despite Father Wilson’s beliefs about what happened in schools, Dick knew exactly what happened to bad boys who needed to be punished. Already, Dick’s eyes began to burn with tears. He didn’t want to be punished. He wanted to run at that very moment. It was a mistake to come.

And yet, he didn’t run, because he knew he deserved it. He knew that he deserved to be punished. 

And for that reason alone, he stayed, even as his knees began to shake.

“Do you think…” Dick trailed off, his bottom lip trembling. He swallowed, trying to catch a grip, and stared straight ahead, trying not to flinch as Father Wilson came up behind him. _They grow timid. Do not be timid. Take your punishment. You deserve it._ “Do you think I can be forgiven?”

A hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

Dick stopped breathing.

Distantly, he smelled something. The faintest cologne.

And yet the hand that touched Dick was nothing like Bruce’s. The grip was hard, digging bruisingly into his flesh. There was nothing gentle or reassuring. And yet, Dick’s body burned with a sudden heat. How badly he wanted to be touched by a man’s hands that he was even willing to accept pain.

“You will be forgiven, boy. But whether you have repented or decided to live a life with sin has yet to be seen.” Father Wilson leaned in, his breath tickling the back of Dick’s ear. Dick tried not to breathe, terrified that even a single breath would expose his nerves. He listened, the room silent save for Slade’s words. “Prove it. Drop your pants.”

Dick’s eyes widened. He stared down, his hands unmoving. He was stunned speechless, frozen in space. But then that hand on his shoulder tightened. Those thick fingers digging into his small, cold body. At Dick’s hesitation, Father Wilson made a noise from the back of his throat, a hum of disappointment.

“You do want to repent, don’t you?”

It felt more like a warning than a suggestion. At that, Dick swallowed and nodded. He had been cowardly for too long. He didn’t want to think of himself as weak and obstinate. He could follow orders, he could accept his punishment. He deserved it. His hands began to move, seemingly of their own accord, to his pants. He undid the button. The fly. He began to push his clothing past his hips.

Then Father grabbed the back of his pants and underwear, pulling them down the rest of the way, in such a swift and strong movement that Dick staggered in place.

Dick stood there, the cool air of the room touching his damp, bare skin. He felt so hopelessly exposed. He couldn’t remember the last time he undressed in front of someone else. Instinctively, his hands wanted to reach to cover himself, but instead they flexed anxiously at his sides.

But Father Wilson did not comment on his body. He placed his hand on the center of Dick’s back, easing him over the desk. Dick followed the guidance of his hand, watching as the walls grew taller—then blurred, as his eyes pricked with tears. Fear and shame swelled up inside of his chest. He didn’t want this, but he was bad. Very bad. And if he hadn’t been bad, none of this would have happened, so he had no one to blame but himself.

He was pressed against the hard desk, his breaths fanning over the wood, his tense hands curled in fists on top of the surface. His head was angled upwards, landing on the crucifix on the wall which loomed over him. It seemed that was all he could see.

He felt the smooth surface of the paddle rest against his ass.

“Let’s try it again. Five Our Fathers.”

Dick moved his mouth to speak, but before he even uttered the first word, his voice was ripped from his throat.

The paddle came down. Hard. The crack thundered throughout the sacristy and Dick lifted off of the desk, groaning through his teeth. The sharp pain shot through his entire body, radiating from where the paddle had landed on his ass.

Already, his eyes burned with tears. He didn’t know when Father was going to strike him again, how many times he was going to, or when. But he did have the sense to know that Father Wilson was far from finished.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut.

And tried again.

“Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name—“

The end of his sentence was punctuated by another thundering crack. The hit landed precisely where the last had. Dick breathed in sharply, hissing in pain. Already, the skin there burned. Father Wilson wasn’t holding back, the swings of his arm sending a hurt that shuddered through Dick’s entire body. 

Dick had difficulties finding his thoughts, his words, his composure. His mouth formed around the next word, mumbling and stuttering.

“Speak up, boy. Repent for your sins,” Father said, voice harder now.

Another strike came down. This time Dick cried out, and had the desk not been there to catch him, his knees might have buckled. 

“I hear you. Now, speak,” Father said, a growl to his voice.

It was then that Dick realized he could not stop. The only way any of this would stop was when he finished. He immediately grabbed at his prayer—it was the only thing that could save him now.

“Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.”

Another strike.

Tears sprung forth, welling in the corners of Dick’s eyes.

The skin, burning raw from the paddle’s bites, prickled with pain. Like needles. Thousands of needles. Dick could barely keep still, his body rocking over the desk, his ass swaying back and forth. But nothing eased the pain. Nothing.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us—“

The paddle swung down again, this time on his other cheek. His hands tightened until his knuckles turned white, his nails digging into his palms. His whole body clenched up, from his jaw to his toes. He wanted to hit the desk, anything to distract him from the newly emerging hurt on his body. But he couldn’t, so instead his fists trembled on the surface.

With that swing, Dick realized Father’s pattern. With every sentence, Father Wilson hit him.

Dick was just nearing the end of his first penance.

He had to do five in total.

The task felt daunting.

Dick’s eyes moved from the wet droplets on the hard wood desk, heavensward towards the crucifix.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen,” Dick said, voice shaking as his head wracked with the realization that he was only a fifth of the way through his punishment.

The paddle cracked against his ass. Dick supported his upper half on the desk. He bit on his bottom lip, moaning behind closed lips. He hissed his way through the beginning of the next Our Father.

_Crack._

The paddle reverberated from the impact. Pain thrummed through Dick’s ass down to his thighs. His toes curled inside of his shoes, legs shifting in place as they tried in vain to get comfortable.

_Crack._

He yelled again. He wanted to tear out his hair. He tried to ignore the pain, but every impact was as strong as the last, the priest putting his entire strength into every swing. His muscles ached, his skin felt as though it had been cut.

He wanted to beg Father to stop.

But instead, he spoke.

It was the only thing that could save him. The only thing.

_Crack._

It was hard to breathe. Every strike stole the air from his lungs. He tried to breathe through the pain, every deep exhale tinged with a moan of pain. His ass was hot now. Every strike of the paddle landed on bruised and burning flesh, adding another layer of pain. Layers and layers and layers of pain all stacked on top of each other.

He spoke, words trembling.

“Amen.”

_Crack._

He was shaking. The pain now spread into his lower back and his entire legs. His entire body was damp from sweat and rainwater. _Or maybe_ , he feared as he sensed the cuts that ran across his ass, it was blood.

He was only on the third Our Father.

He wasn’t even halfway through.

The daunting task of it overwhelmed him. He sniffed back a tear, a tremble rippling across his shoulders.

Father hit him for stalling.

His merciless nature finally tore the sobs that had been lurking inside of Dick’s throat.

Once the crying began, grief flooded from him. His eyes streamed with tears, his face scrunching up. He struggled to think, to speak.

Father, once again, hit him for his silence.

Dick cried out.

“Father, please—“

Another strike.

“Father, no—“

When Dick tried to back up, to get away, Father Wilson slammed his arm down on his back, pinning Dick back to the desk. The thud of the impact reverberated off the walls. The room was so big, but felt as suffocating as that confessional. So suffocating.

The full weight of Father Wilson weighed down on Dick, trapping him. There was no way out, even if Dick was at his full strength.

And he was not at his full strength.

Dick cried there. He felt Father Wilson’s breath fan against his cheek. Dick dared to angle his head to look at him, trying to see him through a veil of tears. He wanted to be able to look at Father Wilson in the eye. He wanted to be strong, to be proud. But he had never felt more weak and ashamed. All he could think about was how sad he must have looked—his red eyes, his snotty nose, his flushed cheeks. He was a mess, an ugly mess. And weak, so weak. And that realization only made him more anguished.

Still, he tried to look. And through his grief all he could see was Father’s blue eye looking back at him.

Dick sniffed back his tears, even as his chest trembled, threatening to rip its way out of him again.

“You will repent. In Jesus’ name, you will repent.”

“Yes,” Dick managed to say, hiccuping afterwards.

Father Wilson finally relaxed the weight on him.

And Dick spoke. Again and again. Until his final amen.

It was over.

Past the burning and bruised flesh, past the pain that radiated through his back and legs, Dick felt nothing but numbness.

He stared blankly into the space ahead of him.

The crucifix blurred out of his focus.

He had repented, and yet he did not feel he had been saved.

He felt lower than ever. A battered piece of flesh and sin. A disgusting creature to be beaten and punished.

But he had to trust in God. So he sniffed back his last cry and moved to pull up his pants. To pick himself up. To go home and be able to look at Bruce without shame—

Then Father Wilson grabbed him by the wrist, stopping Dick from moving any further.

Dick’s heart skipped. But before Dick could question the Father’s actions, the priest spoke.

“You’re not finished. If you recall your confession, you listed your sins. Your immoral desires, which I have punished you for. But there is another sin you must repent for.”

Dick bristled at that. He was almost angry—hadn’t he done enough?—but then he stopped himself, reeling that emotion back in. No, it wasn’t enough. He needed to rid himself of his demons. If God was speaking through Father Wilson, and Father Wilson said it wasn’t enough, then it wasn’t enough.

Dick had to accept that.

“What should I do?” Dick said. Sudden emotion swelled up in his throat. He was tired, hurting, frustrated. But above all that, he wanted to be better. Even if only to make this hell end, to never let it happen again. Desperately, he spoke, “Please tell me what I have to do. Make it stop.”

“The day of your confession, I asked you if you ever penetrated yourself. You said you didn’t know what that meant.”

“I don’t,” Dick confessed.

“I’m talking about sodomy.”

Dick didn’t know what else to say. He stood there, pressed up against the cold table, his body radiating with heat. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t even breathe, as the leatherbound handle of the paddle dragged along the curve of his spine. Ran along the crease of his ass.

Dick’s vision started to blur, his heart racing harder. He didn’t know what Father was thinking. What he was planning. His fears only grew in the silence that followed, waiting on Father Wilson’s every move with nervewracking anticipation.

He shifted uncomfortably as the handle started to press against his hole. Threatening to enter it. 

Dick’s face burned with embarrassment. He wanted to speak up, wanted to warn Father what he was doing. And yet, there was such a sureness to Father Wilson’s movements. An almost calculated way that the handle continuously tried to prod him.

As if the priest knew exactly what he was doing.

“Do you know what I’m speaking of?” Father Wilson said, finally, the handle ceasing its movements, positioned in place.

“No,” Dick said.

“You’re lying again.”

At that, Dick was seized by his own emotions. He was guilty, yes, but not of that—he was not lying—

“No—“

“Yes,” Slade said, firmly.

Suddenly, Dick felt a weight on top of him, shoving him back into the desk. Instinctively, he tried to rise, but Father Wilson’s arm—he realized—kept a firm hold of him, keeping him pinned to the surface. Dick stopped wriggling, his breathing started to pick up. He wanted to fight. But he didn’t even know if he had the right to fight. It seemed the power of God was concentrated into that pillar of an arm, chaining him to where he couldn’t escape, where he had no choice but to confront his sins.

And yet, he was innocent. He knew he was innocent. 

And didn’t God know he was innocent?

“Please—“Dick started, but then he felt something.

That handle.

Not pressing into him, but pushing.

Pushing _into_ him.

“What are you doing?” Dick asked under his breath, shocked.

But then the object began to breach him. Opening him up. Searing pain seized his. He was being split open.

Tears rushed to his eyes at that pain. That terrible, terrible pain.

“Stop it—stop—“

“This is why you came to me, isn’t it? This is what you wanted?”

Father’s voice. Deep. Rough. Angry. Dark.

Fear dropped into Dick’s entire body.

His face burned as the handle began to dig its way into his body. His hole burned as it was forcefully opened up. The blunt object felt foreign and uncomfortable, burning and aching at the intrusion.

Fresh tears began to fall down his face.

“This is what you sinned for. To be broken and entered by a man. By your father. This is what you wanted. Does it feel good, boy? Was it worth it?”

The handle forced its way inside of Dick. It was unnatural, Dick kept thinking. Unnatural. The rough ridges of the leather bumped up inside of his tight hole. Every movement inside of him burned. And it wasn’t stopping, continuing to bury inside of him. Deeper. Deeper.

And as much as Dick sobbed or struggled, it kept going. Defiling his body. Breaking him apart.

No, it was too much—

It didn’t even matter if he was guilty or innocent. All Dick knew was that he was sorry. To Bruce, to Father, to God. He was so sorry for everything.

“Father, please, forgive me—“

The object started to retreat. Dick hiccuped around his sobs. But before he could even begin to feel relief, it was shoved back inside of him.

“No,” he choked out, his sobs breaking up his voice.

The handle started to move back and forth inside of him. With every withdrawal, Dick hoped it was the last. But it was never ending. Dick tried to rise up, but Father’s grip was too strong. Fruitlessly, Dick grabbed at the arm that pinned him. The sleeves of that stiff black shirt were rolled up to the elbow. Dick could sense the hairs and tendons and bulging veins that traced that strong, muscular arm. And he could do nothing, except grasp at him for purchase.

“Please, please, Father—“Dick said, his voice a mess, gasping for breaths between every plea.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Father Wilson said. His voice seemed to tremble with rage. Enough anger to strike Dick with fear, when he was already consumed with it. Fear of not just his punishment, but fear of not knowing where he had sinned, where he had been damned.

He cried harder, shaking his head.

“No, stop—“

That handle. Insistently prodding inside of him. Pushing up against his walls. Building friction.

“You liar. You’re a whore. A fag. And that’s all you’re damned to be.”

“No, no—“

His heart was racing so fast. He shook his head fervently. Trying to shut out Father Wilson’s words.

“You’ll rot in hell.”

Burning. His whole body was burning up. His skin ached and burned with pain.

But underneath that pain was something. Something else. He felt it every time Father Wilson shoved in that handle, the blunt end sliding in, bumping up against his insides. Something that made Dick’s fists and toes curl.

Dick breathed into the table. His sobs were slowing, replaced by his shuddering breaths.

“Confess. Confess that you lied. Confess that you’re a whore, a fag.”

“Father—“

His voice was so tired and exhausted from screaming and crying that it rasped.

The handle pushed into him in a single, long stroke. It felt deeper than it had ever been. And yet, it moved almost seamlessly into his body. Dick grunted as it did it again. His body shifted in place.

He felt uncomfortable. His lower body twisted with heat. When Dick moved his thighs, he suddenly understood what he was feeling.

His cock was getting hard.

“I lied,” Dick said. It was easy to say, because it was true. But the others—

Father began to move the paddle inside of him faster. A tremor ran down Dick’s body. The paddle was now stroking that spot inside of him. Dick bit back his groan, his head rolling against the desk. He couldn’t keep still. His heart started to race faster, now recognizing the feelings from when he was alone, touching himself in his bed. When he was stuck in his thoughts of Bruce. 

Is this what Dick had wanted all along, just as Father had said? Is this the sin that had been hiding inside of him? That steadily growing heat and electricity that made him feel so good when what he was doing was so wrong—is this what that blue eye had seen?

His heart started to stutter with fear. Should he be warning Father Wilson? But he was too scared to say anything, too scared of being hit, that he quickly gave Father what he wanted. He needed to end this.

“I’m a whore. I’m—a fag.”

All at once, Father pulled out of him.

When Father Wilson stepped away, Dick’s whole body slumped with gravity. His weak legs hung off of the edge of the desk. Dick pressed his forehead against the wood.

The room was silent, save for the sounds of Dick’s breathing.

Dick’s body shuddered when a hand touched his raw backside, tracing over the cuts and bruises left behind. Dick’s skin pinprickled along the lines that Father Wilson left with the almost gentle touch of his fingertips. All at once, Dick shivered, scared of what Father was planning.

“Please, Father, forgive me. No more.”

Father Wilson said nothing. His hand trailed down the crease of Dick’s ass to his balls. To his hard cock. Where Father Wilson then pulled, with too much force to feel good. And yet it did feel good.

Dick’s eyes were too dry of tears. He was too tired to cry. But he wanted—wanted—

“Father,” he breathed. He couldn’t form any other ways of apologizing. His throat was hoarse from crying and begging. “Father…”

“You really are a whore.”

“No…” Dick said, but he was tired. So tired. He wanted to get off the desk. Go lie down somewhere. He couldn’t pick himself up.

Father let go of him. But Dick could hear him moving around behind him. Could hear the rustle of his clothes. The clang of his belt. The zip of his fly.

Dick felt something prod against him. It was warm—not like the paddle, and that was enough to momentarily confuse and distract him. 

Dick did not even get a chance to plea before Father entered him with his cock.

Dick’s hands tightened once again. This was nothing like the paddle. Father Wilson’s cock curved up inside of him, was bigger, but smooth and hot. It throbbed inside of him, stretching him out, but in a way that felt soothing.

In a way that felt pleasurable.

Dick squirmed underneath Father Wilson. Dick didn’t want to be penetrated and punished anymore. He didn’t. But as he moved, the cock inside of him pulsed, and Dick felt his own cock twitch in response. Unbidden, a moan escaped him.

At that, Slade groaned deeply in response. That guttural voice made Dick shudder, the hairs on his nape standing.

That voice. That voice.

Dick closed his tired eyes.

“Father,” Dick moaned.

Father Wilson started to fuck him, immediately moving into a steady pace. Dick had never been fucked before. Every push inside of him made him squirm and moan. It was uncomfortable, strange. Father Wilson was big, pushing into his tight hole in forceful, yet measured thrusts. As if intent on opening him up, making him take his cock.

Dick moaned weakly, but he was tired. So tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of being punished.

Tired of repenting.

So he laid there as Father rocked into him. Steady at first, but then faster. Even as he got rough—with those big hands wrapped around his delicate hips—Dick laid there. Focusing on the way the head of that cock pressed into him, the long shaft stroking against him. Each thrust layering those funny feelings on top of each other. Making Dick hotter. Harder.

Between his legs, his cock throbbed. His nipples were hard beneath his cool, damp shirt.

Every inch of Father Wilson’s cock stroked deep inside of Dick, sending him deeper and deeper into a haze. A place where Dick didn’t have to think, just feel. A place where Dick wasn’t consumed by his thoughts or fears.

Dick moaned as Father started to drive into him. Faster. Harder. Each time that cock fucked into him, Dick slipped deeper into his pleasure. He should have been angry, ashamed, humiliated. And in the back of his mind, he was. But in the present, all he felt was the heat building his groin. The way he was stroked from the inside, over and over again.

Father, now fucking into him almost violently. Their bodies slamming up against each other. Dick didn’t realize he was moaning until he caught the cry of his own voice, the sound almost unrecognizable. He cried out again and again, the desk trembling underneath him, his own legs quivering as he was forced to keep them spread. The force of each thrust rocked Dick over the desk, that cock grinding deep inside of him. Deep, deep inside of him. Stroking up against his walls. Sparks of white hot pleasure coursing through him.

Don’t think.

Don’t fight it.

_I’m a whore. I’m a fag._

The ecstasy coursed through his body. It seized him. He screamed as his orgasm ripped through him, quick and sudden and unexpected. His thin ejaculate sprayed from the cock that dangled between his legs, leaking onto his thighs and the floor below.

Father took advantage of his body, fucking hard and fast into that clenched, tight hole. Dick’s whole body burned. The pleasure was almost painful, almost unbearable. He moaned weakly and cried but Father ignored him, his hands gripping Dick’s hips and sliding him along his cock. The subtle rasps of his grunts and breaths making Dick shudder.

“Say it again,” Father breathed suddenly. And Dick held onto that voice, listening over the sounds of their bodies colliding into each other and the desk’s groans. “Repent.”

A moment.

“Forgive me, Father,” Dick said, finally.

He had almost forgotten what he was repenting for.

Dick closed the door behind him.

He was enveloped in a red light.

He turned away from the cross on the wall, seeking the face behind the slotted screen.

He kneeled, making the sign of the cross.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”

A thick silence filled the confessional.

Then Father’s voice came. Low and deep.

“What have you come to confess?”

Dick reached between his legs, adjusting the front of his pants, barely containing his voice. He watched the face on the other side of the screen, not quite making out the features of Father’s face. But he knew the scent of that cologne. The timbre of that voice. The darkness of that eye. The roughness of that touch.

He had known it every night. For the past week. And beyond that.

He felt his body heat against his hand. He gripped himself harder, letting the breath shudder past his lips, his voice whispering:

“Here are my sins.”

Dick’s head twisted to the side, his cheek caressed by the kiss of the pillow beneath his head. The front of his body pressed against the mattress, the soft touch of the bed contrasting against the rough cords wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

He opened his eyes, his line of sight following the length of his arm to the rope that was tethered to the bedpost. He could feel the strain and tension in his arms, extending from his shoulders up to the bites of the rope around each wrist.

He was bound there. Both arms stretched out, side to side. Each wrist pinned to each post. His legs were bound together.

The bed sunk. A hand brushed over the lash marks on his back.

Before wrapping around his shoulder.

Dick watched the shadows as they fell over him. He looked up out of the corner of his eye.

He saw him.

Father’s eye, looking back at him.

That blue eye that brought him to this place. And looking into it, he still felt it. Love. That wanting for forgiveness.

All of it, despite the lashings and the pinning of his wrists and the pain that burdened his outstretched arm.

He looked into Father’s eye, which he had suffered the sins of the world for.

And murmured, “Amen.”


End file.
